Steam:
by Mind of the Childishly Naive
Summary: We accumulate a number of things over the years. / preseries, Tom's Workers, anthology
1. rolling in against the shore

-x-

Steam:  
_rolling in against the shore_

-x-

Very early on, Iceberg is still in a bit of awe.

He finds himself sitting up well into the night at Tom's drawing desk, just the lamp light for company. He paws through the stack of blueprints for the Sea Train, looking over every detail, pulling the papers up close to his face to read Tom's cramped writing. Iceberg can hardly wrap his head around it. Tom has spent the last several months trying to finish these, perhaps much longer simply fostering the dream, and he told the judge it could be done in just ten years. Iceberg does the math with silent ease, slips another thick blue drafting paper to the bottom of the stack. He'll be in his twenties, then. It's hard to imagine.

And holding Water 7's last hope in his hands, knowing the sheer scale of what they're going to be doing...

To Iceberg, it seems a fantastic, impossible feat.

But good old Tom sleeps as easily as ever. This is the first time in a long while that Iceberg has seen him turn in before everyone else, sleep the full night without tossing and turning. He's tired from the day's work and content with their progress, though it hardly seems like progress at all, when Iceberg thinks of all the work that's still ahead. He's just as worn out as Tom is, but can't seem to shut off his brain once it's time to stop. He's too eager to keep working to lay down and rest, too full of that familiar ache in his muscles, that soreness in his hands.

Around the fishman's girth, Franky lifts his head, hair mussed from tossing about, looking surly, and Iceberg frowns right back at him, lowering the stack of paper with a soft rustle that seems incredibly loud in the warehouse. Franky scrubs his eyes with the back of his hand.

"Idiotberg," he grumbles, voice lost in a sleepy roughness that will be more commonplace in just a few short years, "Cut the light off, we're tryin'a sleep here."

Iceberg keeps his own voice low when he replies, though he's merely teasing, "I don't see why you're acting so tired, all you do is play all day long."

"Hey! What I'm doin' is real work, too!"

Franky raises his voice at the slight and Tom startles them both into silence when he guffaws in his sleep, turning over onto his side, away from the light. Franky bares his teeth in a grimace, tugging blankets out of his way, and Iceberg reaches up to cut off the lamp. He tucks the blueprints safely back into the drawer of Tom's desk, and when he climbs over Tom's slender legs to get to his own pallet he stomps Franky in the hip, mutters under his breath, "You're the one that's going to wake everyone!"

He gets elbowed in the ribs as he's settling under the blankets.

"You're the one makin' me yell, ice for brains!" Franky says between his teeth, face half-buried in the pillow, hands and knees all pushing into Iceberg's space until Iceberg makes an aggravated noise and shoves him back against Tom. The fishman's stomach gives, he huffs out a _tah_, but doesn't stir again.

"You're not coming over here to me," Iceberg says, a foot in Franky's chest the only thing keeping him at bay, "If Mr. Tom's on your pallet then turn him over."

Franky grumbles, "He weighs like a ton, you come turn him over!" and he wads himself up in the folds of his blanket, lays diagonally between Iceberg and Tom and curls around his pillow. He's out again in no time at all, and Franky sleeps like the tide rolling in against the shore, just as soundly as Tom does. Iceberg has given up shoving the unwanted limbs off, because if it's not a leg across him, it's an arm, or Franky as a whole, and he has learned to deal with these small annoyances, tucking his head underneath the pillow so he doesn't get kicked in the ear again. He's used to the movement, the noise and the warmth, and without them, by now, he probably couldn't sleep at all.

He can't imagine it being any different, years down the road.

-x-

(A/n) To clarify the word "anthology", this is a collection of drabbles and one-shots (some are super short like this one, other are about 2/3K wow) that take place during the ten years Tom's Workers built the Sea Train. They're all in chronological order; there are 10 chapters totaled! I was gonna just post them all together in one document, but I kept writing and adding things and when the over-all word count got up over 10K I decided it'd be better to post it one section at a time, so here we are~

I hope you guys enjoy these because I had a ton of fun writing them (it was a very serious problem - I almost couldn't stop!).

Reviews are appreciated! ' 3'

-Motcn


	2. castings

-x-

Steam:   
_the castings_

-x-

"Oh my. They're broken alright."

The last three fingers on Franky's right hand have certainly seen better days. They're mangled after being caught in one of the end bearings, still bleeding freely despite the steady pressure Iceberg is applying, Franky's hand clamped between the two of his. The oil-stained rag from his back pocket probably wasn't the wisest choice, but he had it in his hands when he pried the bearings back apart, and in his defense he wasn't really considering infection at the time. He thought for certain Franky had lost his hand - and he's seen people work with less, but not shipwrights, and the cold panic still has a heavy seat in his chest.

When Iceberg peels the rag to take another look, gingerly pinching one of Franky's trembling fingers to feel out the severity of the break, Franky grits his teeth, but he doesn't cry. He still squirms on the crate he's sitting on, scuffs his feet against the broken boards and dirt and bounces his knee. His left hand curls into a tight fist.

"Hey, be easy, damnit!"

His voice breaks.

_Not that it hurts or anything_ doesn't make it out this time - probably because it hurts quite a lot. Iceberg covers Franky's hand again, eyes narrowed. He squeezes harder than is entirely necessary and Franky pushes his feet against the ground, the heel of his left hand banging against the edge of the crate.

"I told you that same thing not ten minutes ago, Flaky. You don't listen!"

The slight waver in his voice is pure annoyance. With some of the blood sopped up, the wound doesn't look as bad as he thought it might be, but there is no disputing that he will be the one picking up the slack while Franky's hand heals. It will take twice as long because he will insist on doing work that he can't and won't give his fingers that chance to heal properly. And they've had so much trouble trying to get the running gear aligned...

Leaning over the two of them, Tom casts a broad shadow. He takes the tension right out of them both when he sees that everything is alright, and he booms with laughter. Franky grins up at the shipwright, though it's more a grimace of pain as he raises his free hand, puts his thumb up. Iceberg sighs, adjusting the rag around Franky's fingers to a cleaner section.

All of Franky's fingers are accounted for, and that's all that matters.

-x-

"We'll need more iron," Tom says over the top of his bowl, chewing slowly while he thinks, chopsticks clacking on the porcelain.

The splints on Franky's broken fingers came off yesterday, but the bandages haven't. Kokoro says to let them breath a little in between changing the bandages every night, tells him not to pick at the scabs because they still bleed pretty bad. They still hurt like hell. They're kinda stiff when he tries to bend them and they itch like crazy, swell up when he uses his hand too much, so he can barely use them by the end of the day - but that don't stop him from cupping the bottom of his bowl and lifting it off the table. (It's not to hide his face - that'd be stupid.) The warmth eases the throbbing in his fingers a little, the bandages blocking most of the heat.

The steam rises up, fogging his goggles and warming his cheeks, the broth burning his tongue.

"I _know_ where we can get more iron," Iceberg says, in that smart ass way that makes Franky shovel more noodles into his mouth, though he can't really taste them, now.

The past couple of days, they've been pulling the bolts out of rotten boards, scrubbing rust off of patch plates and disassembling any unused rigging from the scrapped ships on the island to get enough iron to fill the castings Tom made. Iceberg has spent hours in the warehouse dock melting it all down, maintaining the temperature in the crucible, pumping air into the furnace and filling the molds. His skin is still flushed from the heat, even now that he's been away from it for a while; ash smudging his face and arms, cleaner streaks in the dark where he's sweat through it. He's staring hard at Franky, but Franky pretends not to notice.

He keeps his face shoved into his bowl, his heart beating hard in his chest. He finished another Battle Franky today and it's his best design yet, almost tough enough to stand up to a Sea King! He doesn't think he should feel like garbage just because he used some of the scrap iron that was lying around - it wasn't like he knew they would need _all_ of it, it's just a bunch of _junk_, anyway, and Tom told him he could do what he wanted with it.

Tom didn't laugh when Franky showed him the new blueprints.

He didn't tell Franky they didn't have the time or resources for him to work on his own project.

But Iceberg... has a point.

Franky doesn't like the way the last of his broth tastes as he gulps it down, too hot to swallow. It hurts his throat. Tom's laughter shakes the table and Kokoro rolls her eyes, tells him to quiet down even though there's that weird smile on her face as she stands. She wrestles Franky's empty bowl out of his hands and takes Tom's, as well, so she can get them seconds.

"Leave his Battle Frankies alone, Iceberg," Tom says, and Iceberg looks about to protest, but Tom is still laughing, helping himself to a roll from the basket on the table. Franky wishes he had something in his hands, something to hide behind. He chews on the ends of his chopsticks and stares at Yokozuna as the frog licks his own bowl - Iceberg lets out a sigh through his nose, raising his own bowl to his lips while he watches Tom. "He worked hard on them. Besides, his ships are no less important than mine."

At that, Iceberg scoffs, the sound hollow and wet.

"The Sea Train is way more important! Flaky only builds ships for himself - and they're just goofy weapons!"

"Hey!" Franky snaps, banging his right fist on the table. His hand trembles, comes unclenched. "At least I'm building ships, ice for brains!"

"What the hell d'you think I'm doing all day?!"

"_Ta ha..! Ha...! Ha!_ Simmer down, boys," Tom says, before the argument can start in earnest. Franky hides his hands underneath the table, palms flat against the insides of his thighs to stop his bandaged fingers from shaking and throbbing. He sees Iceberg staring out of the corner of his eye and resists the urge to stick his tongue out at the jerk. "We'll just have to take on a couple of jobs in between working on that old train, that's all. You'll both have plenty of opportunities to build ships with a BOOM!"

-x-

-Motcn


	3. the narrow space

-x-

Steam:  
_the narrow space between the hot coils_

-x-

The warehouse gets drafty in the winter months.

There's really no helping that. And the cold doesn't particularly bother her or Tom, but Kokoro can at least make sure the apartment where the boys eat, sleep, and learn a thing or two is warm when they come in from working all day long in such unfavorable weather. The snow's going on two feet out there, but it's no surprise to her that they're all three still out there. Yokozuna's the only one with any sense at all. He's sprawled out on the floor alongside the heater, trembling underneath the heavy quilt Franky and Iceberg squabble over, and Kokoro pats the amphibian's back with a sympathetic smile, leaning over the top of him to turn the dial up a bit higher.

It's the same heater Tom bought when they first came to Water 7; wrought iron and about ten years older than the latest model, but it still does it's job just fine, lending it's heat to the entire room, warming up the floor where the boys' pallets will go until Kokoro moves it out of the way at night. (She sets it directly in front of the door so it can block the chill coming in from the dock. So Franky doesn't burn his arms or legs flopping around in his sleep like a fish at the end of a line. So Tom doesn't run over the top of it in the early mornings when he gets up in the dark or when he goes to bed late, and so Iceberg doesn't set the warehouse ablaze tossing off his blankets.)

Kokoro leaves Yokozuna alone in the apartment and goes to finish up her chores before starting supper. It's a difficult thing doing the laundry when clothes spread out on the line to dry just freeze up, instead. Kokoro supposes she's lucky the boys don't really have a lot of clothes to wash. Between the three of them it's mostly shirts, a couple of pairs of jeans (Franky's shorts when she can get him out of them), and most of it fits easily on the lines she has strung up in the bathroom. She cuts the fan on and props it up on a stool in the doorway to help them dry faster, though it adds to the cold if she doesn't keep the door closed.

Kokoro folds the clothes that are dry, rotates the few that aren't to the front, and puts them all away in the single chest of drawers in the back of the utility room. She sweeps the apartment around Yokozuna, who's fallen asleep. She peels the potatoes, chops the vegetables, sets the water boiling, and then goes to the books in between. The soup is ready, simmering on the stove - the check book is balanced, any orders Tom needs to oversee laid out on the desk, the budget for the month filled in, the grocery list written - when they finally come in late that evening, shuddering and stomping the snow off their boots just outside the door.

The boys crowd around the heater, Iceberg tugging off his gloves with chattering teeth, Franky sticking his hands in the narrow space between the hot coils. Tom knows better than to get in between them and the warmth. He's laughing as he takes his seat at the table and Franky climbs over Yokozuna, trying to get closer to the heater. Franky pulls his coat open and then reaches across the heater, starts tugging on Iceberg's despite the older boy's protests, despite the numb fingers pulling at his.

He does his best to cocoon the warmth in between the two of them by zipping their coats up together.

It's about the only time out of the year Kokoro can convince him to wear pants, and that's the only thing that saves Franky from burning his knees when he's leaning up against the heater, half-sitting on Yokozuna. He sticks his head down between the joined collar of their coats, forehead digging into Iceberg's shoulder, hair in Iceberg's face, humming out happy noises. Iceberg grumbles and complains, draws out a sigh that is far older than he is, but he pulls his arms out of his coat sleeves and keeps his hands in between them so the heat's directly off of Franky's face. It also provides a nice advantage, when Franky starts shouting around the collars that he's starving and can't wait a moment longer.

When Iceberg punches him in the ribs and tells him to be patient (_"Ms. Kokoro's worked all day, too, Flaky!"_), Franky has nowhere to go to escape the playful blow. Laughing, Kokoro dishes the soup out into bowls - a set she has had for years, chipped around the rims from the occasional drop, the blue acrylic paint scratching off in places. She listens contentedly to the boys fighting, Yokozuna ribbeting a protest when he's stepped on, Tom's loud laughter filling up the room around the groan of the heater.

-x-

-Motcn


	4. barely hanging by a nail

-x-

Steam:_  
__barely hanging by a nail_

-x-

It's a strange experience watching other shipwrights work.

Granted, Iceberg would prefer observing from somewhere other than the back of a crowd. He'd definitely prefer not having Franky's legs wrapped around his neck, trying to squeeze the life out of him as the boy shifts and pushes on his head, trying to get a better look, himself. At almost fourteen, he's started to spread out a bit - all elbows and awkward, lanky limbs - but he hasn't gotten much taller. He's still too short to see over other people (something Iceberg doesn't let go so easily), and Iceberg had to stop him from simply plowing through the crowd and climbing the fence into the yard when they first arrived. This seemed like the better option, but now Iceberg is starting to have regrets.

It's not that Franky is particularly heavy, it's that he can't be still to save his life. Iceberg pinches the inside of Franky's knee again when he leans too far to one side and nearly offbalances them both, twisting until Franky yelps and jerks his knee up, curling inward.

"Cut that out, Franky!" Iceberg says when Franky jams a finger into his eye, gripping his face.

He can just see the color of Franky's hair on the edge of his vision, brighter than ever under the glare of the sun.

Franky throws out an arm, the other wrapped around Iceberg's forehead, one foot swinging out.

"They're doin' it wrong!"

Franky's voice carries over the quiet, curious murmuring of the other watchers, over the sounds of saws and hammers and the groan of the crane as it moves lumber across the yard. A few people turn around to look at them. Iceberg pinches harder, glaring up.

"Shut your mouth!" he hisses under his breath.

_"They're doin' it wrong,"_ Franky insists again at a more decent volume.

He rests his elbow against the top of Iceberg's head, drops his free hand down to direct Iceberg's attention to the starboard side of the ship, where they're just starting to lay the boards that make up the hull. Iceberg is taken aback when he sees what Franky's talking about. It's a technique Iceberg hasn't seen anyone use before and he watches with rapt interest as the boards go into the sets, the nails get hammered in and the caulking goes between the seams. Another voice thunders over all the noise, and Franky mumbles something about _"that huge bearded guy bein' loud"_, but Iceberg - thinking that Franky has no room to talk about _anyone_ being loud, but keeping the comment to himself - is watching the work the man does.

It's certainly not the way they build ships.

"The way they're doing it is fine," he finally says.

Franky has his hands propped on his knees, leaned forward like he doesn't believe it, but Iceberg knows he's watching just as closely. He's quiet. That's the only give-away. As the sun climbs, the spectators start thinning out, returning to their own jobs - if they have them - or simply seeking shelter from the heat. Iceberg stays until the shipwrights are about halfway up the bow, laying the floor of the lowest deck, then he jumps his shoulders a little, steps back and away.

"Let's get going," he says, holding tight to Franky's calves so he doesn't get hit in the face during the protest he knows will come, "We can't stand around all day and watch other people work, just because you wanted to see a pirate ship. Mr. Tom already told you they're no different from any other ship."

Franky unhooks his ankles from where they're crossed, thumping Iceberg in the chest.

"You didn't have to come with me, ice for brains, I could'a come by myself!"

"Ms. Kokoro asked me to keep you out of trouble, and I've already done that twice, now," Iceberg reminds him, and Franky's jerky movements draw attention from anyone that's still hanging around, but they don't stop Iceberg from leaving the dry dock for the backstreets. He yanks on Franky's ankle when he digs his heel into Iceberg's ribs. "Running your mouth like that - you know they're professionals, too, right? You're going to get yourself killed or _worse_, you'll embarrass the company!"

"That's some messed up priorities you got there," Franky grumbles. He's laying over the top of Iceberg's head, arms dangling down and holding onto his own legs, trying to get a look at Iceberg's face without having to climb down. Iceberg lifts his chin enough to look up at him, sees Franky's glaring face, made dark and hazy around the edges by the sunlight above him. "Come on, Iceberg, what's it gonna hurt to hang out a while longer?"

"Ms. Kokoro asked us to pick up a few things, remember?"

Iceberg digs a folded piece of paper out of his back pocket, holding it up as a reminder. Franky rolls his eyes (at least, Iceberg assumes he does, from the sigh, "Whatever."), pushes on Iceberg's head and slips backwards off his shoulders to the ground.

The list isn't long, but they have to visit a few different shops to get everything; they have to walk halfway across town, take an extra long detour because there's a bridge out in the market district, just for the bags of flour Kokoro wanted. Iceberg lays the paper in his palm and scratches off the items they already have with a carpenter pencil, moving between the barren aisles of the fifth grocery store. Franky shadows him without saying anything - makes the grocer who's sweeping the front of the store look sideways at them, because he's not wearing any pants. Iceberg doesn't know how to explain to him that that sort of thing is fine when you're a little kid, but not so much when you're older.

He also figures it's Franky's business, what he wears (or doesn't).

Franky is standing at his elbow, holding one of the bags open and staring down into it.

"Hey," he says, and Iceberg hums, only half listening, "What d'you think those pirates are doin' while those guys build their - ?"

A loud clatter behind the register makes both of them turn. The grocer has knocked over a small stand of dusty postcards with his elbow and the broom in his hands clatters to the floor. He tries to right the stand with trembling hands, kneels to pick up the scattered cards, but keeps craning to look out at the street through the open door. Its corroded with water-damage, the long window in the center cracked. The man's eyes are wide when he glares at them, cards gripped and folding in his hands.

"Pirates?" he asks, voice pitched much higher than Iceberg remembers it being when he first greeted them, "Where did you see pirates?"

"We didn't," Iceberg says warily.

"They're building a pirate ship over at the second Dock," Franky puts in, less so.

The man scoffs - another high noise - and starts sliding the cards back into the small trays on the stand beside the register. He's still looking out the shop door, grumbling under his breath, "Damn shipwrights. Pirates are the reason I barely got any business anymore..." Iceberg isn't sure what makes the man start talking, but when he carries on muttering to himself - cursing the shipwrights for taking business from scum like that, cursing the tide and the island and a number of other things, voicing all his woes and fears - Iceberg takes that as a sign to go. Franky has miraculously bitten his tongue, settled for glaring daggers at the man, and Iceberg stoops to lift a sack of flour onto his shoulder before the moment passes.

The shipwrights are just as starved for business as everyone else on the island is. Pirates or not, a ship means a sale.

-x-

Franky goes into town three more times as the week wears on.

Iceberg notices that he's not around because he's not helping, but that's nothing new. He just assumes Franky's working on another of his stupid battle ships - the newest one, just a few days old, sitting abandoned by the shore and in surprisingly poor condition after it's first voyage out to sea. Franky hadn't wanted to talk about it, and Iceberg had decided not to be annoyed about it. Atleast, until Tom looks up across the top of one of the dented wheels they're trying to get replaced before breaking for lunch. The fishman starts laughing, "There he goes again, off to see the pirate ship," and Iceberg shifts where he's kneeling in front of the third driving wheel, looking over his shoulder in time to see Franky disappear up the broad set of steps on the bridge. He huffs out an breath, wipes the sweat off his forehead with the back of his glove and turns back around.

"What's he so fixated on that ship for, anyway?" Iceberg mutters, hefting the connecting rod again, aligning it with the crankpin and ramming it into place with the heel of his hand, "He acts like he's never seen one before in his life."

Iceberg pulls himself to his feet, walks the line of wheels to be sure all the bolts are tightened.

"It's in the boy's blood, is all," Tom says, dismissive and smiling, "Even though he knows first-hand how pirates can be, he's still curious about them. That dream ship of his - he probably wouldn't be sorry if it turned out to be a pirate ship! _Ta ha...! Ha..!"_

"He's going to get himself into trouble."

But Tom laughs at that, as well, "Well, then he'll just have to learn to get himself out of trouble, won't he?"

-x-

The cobbestone is hot under Franky's bare feet and he quickens his pace a little, hiking up the waistband of the stupid khaki shorts Kokoro told him to wear before he left the warehouse. He doesn't see the point - not like he's running around naked, and even if he did, that's his business, ain't it? Franky ducks into an alley at the next corner and climbs the narrow stairs, glad for the shade the shortcut provides and the cool, wet stone. The nicer parts of town see a lot less flooding - the bridges and houses aren't so rundown, where just about everything here in the lower streets is almost always falling apart. And there's not much that stands a chance against the high tide, anyway.

Aqua Laguna tore out quite a few of the bridges in the backstreets when it came through a few weeks ago. People have patched their houses up where they took on water damage, drained the few areas that flooded really bad, but there's still water across the streets in a lot of places, debris scattered all over the place.

When Franky comes out onto the mainstreet, behind the second Dock, he lifts his hands to block the sun, squinting against the light. The pirate ship's still sitting in the dry dock in the yard, the hull finished, the masts in place. All that's left are the sails and rigging, most of the interior, and Franky laments that he won't get to see the inside. (He thought about sneaking in at night to get a good look, but Idiotberg heard him talking it over with Yokozuna and knocked him in the head, told him not to go snooping around.) He's surprised it's taking them so long to finish it, considering how many guys they have - Iceberg and Tom can finish a pretty big ship in just under a week by themselves, a day and a half less if Franky helps out, too.

Still, leaning over the wood fence that's only half-standing, Franky can tell they've done a decent job.

He's eager to see the ship once the flag goes up, wonders if the pirates will paint their jolly roger over the new white sails or if they'll change them out for black ones once the ship is theirs. It makes him wonder what happened to their old ship, too, as he scans the rest of the yard and kicks his feet, toes bumping against the front of the fence.

There's a small, sneaking voice in the back of his head that tells him he knows exactly what happened to it. When he took his Battle Franky out to hunt for a Sea King the other day, he remembers seeing a ship - not the sails, certainly not something as small as a flag, and then nothing at all over the huge wave, the set of broad, sharp teeth trying to swallow him and his ship whole. The canon fire had only pissed it off. Franky barely made it back to shore (was glad that Iceberg wasn't around to say I-told-you-so), but he didn't think twice about the ship that he saw. Now that it's been on his mind, though, that was the same day the pirates came to town.

He hasn't seen the pirates himself, but he's heard plenty of rumors (from people too scared to run the pirates off, but not too scared to talk about them). That they ran everyone else out of the hotel where they're staying, they hit up a different bar every night and always cause a lot of damage and get into fights. Franky's noticed over the week that the streets are a lot emptier, but it's just typical pirate stuff, other than having ransacked the town, and that's probably on the list of thing to do _after_ they get their new ship.

Franky hears the shipwrights coming back before he sees them.

Their voices run into one another, echoing across the yard, and Franky turns his head to look in the direction of the company building, the boards of the fence creaking under him, wobbling a bit. He sees the glint of steal as one of the men comes around the corner, shouldering a broad saw. The ship's all but finished, now. And Franky realizes that he doesn't care to stick around and stare at the hull all day when he could be doing anything else. He doesn't want to watch them launch it - it won't be as cool as when Tom tosses a ship one-handed - BOOM! - into the sea. And he definitely doesn't want to stick around and wait for the pirates to turn up.

Before he's spotted, Franky drops down off the fence. He starts heading home, goes the long way around before he doubles back at the last minute to take a look at the bridge that's out. It's one of the smaller wood bridges, the only one that crossed the cannal for several blocks in either direction. Franky drums his knuckles on the corner of the railing as he steps up onto the lone board that's still in place on this side, kneels on the edge of the splintered wood and wiggles a post free, where it's barely hanging by a nail. Thumping the post in the palm of his hand and surveying the damage, Franky wonders why nobody's bothered to fix it yet.

It's been a pain in the ass since Aqua Laguna - then again, not very many people are motivated to work around here.

If he's honest, Franky doesn't know what Tom sees in this town.

It's been a dump pretty much as long as he's been here.

Seeing that the street's empty except for a couple of dogs fighting and strolling garbage, Franky pushes the khakis down off his hips, steps out of them and wads them up in his shirt once he shrugs that off, too. It's been hot as hell, anyway. He tosses the bundle across the gapping bridge, braces himself for the burst of cold he knows is coming by sucking in a deep breath, and hops down into the cannal. Franky swims for a while just to make the dip worth it. He pulls his goggles over his eyes and sees how long he can hold his breath; watches the sunlight filter down through the water, white spots in the murky blue, growing and glinting with the tug of the current.

There's a bunch of junk settled on the bottom of the cannal and Franky hauls it up to the surface, pushes tires, boards, netting, up onto the street. Not too many people through here can afford Yagaras, but it'd still be a shame if any of them got snagged or hurt.

Once the sun's just about gone past the roof of the house on the west side of the street, Franky measures out how far across the cannal is, then climbs out on the other side. The water level's risen enough so that it's not as difficult as it normally is, and Franky's still soaking wet when he steps back into his pants, water splashing on the cobblestone. He puts the heel of one foot against the toes of the other as he steps into each pant leg to see how wide the bridge needs to be, his shirt drapped over one shoulder.

-x-

It takes him about an hour to find and pull apart and old dingy on Scrap Island. There's a spear through the bottom of the hull, but all of the wood is still usable; it isn't weak or rotted. Franky ties the lumber together, rounds up his tools, takes a saw out of the warehouse, and goes back to the bridge. (Kokoro tells him to come in and eat when she catches him sneaking off again, Iceberg makes a dumb comment when Franky says he's busy and not hungry, anyway, and Franky tells him to shove it, he can do whatever he wants.) It takes about as long to build a bridge as Franky expects it to. He's never built one - just ships, some furniture for ships, and a table, once, when they broke theirs sumo wrestling - but once he finishes the first, cooling off in the growing shade as the sun starts going down, his legs sticking out between the posts, he decides to fix the others tomorrow.

-x-

Franky is on his way home in the half-dark - the few spare boards leaned against his shoulder, saw and tools looped together in his free hand - when the sound of a bottle breaking up ahead makes him jump. With it comes noisy laughter, feet scuffling drunkely as about twelve men round the corner. One of them tosses another empty bottle against the wall and every one of them laughs as the dark glass sprays the street, crunching under their boots. Franky can tell only one or two of them are really drunk. They take up the entire street and he hesitates, slows down a bit, glancing toward the cannal and then back behind him, hefting the boards where they're resting in his palm.

Drunk punks don't scare him.

But there aren't too many _happy_ drunks around here, and he's got a nagging feeling in his gut.

A bottle hits the water this time, with a loud _plop_. Franky grits his teeth, steps forward, "Hey!" A couple of them look up; one of them sags against his buddy and another of the dumb, drunk bastards just falls right over. "The hell's the matter with you morons? 'S this look like a dump to you?"

One guy starts laughing, "Yeah, the hell's it look like to you, kid - ?"

"Son of a _BITCH_," another shouts, voice booming in the empty street, startling the rest of them. He throws the bottle in his hand, the liquid arching out, and Franky flinches to the side. It's a sloppy throw and it misses by a good foot, at least, smashing on the wall behind him. Beer splatters on the street. The man points a finger at him, coming forward as the others start yelling, too, all at the same time. "You're the little son of a bitch - the kid that got that Sea King after us - !"

"Shit!"

"Are you kidding me - "

"You little fucker! You and that dumpy canon ship of yours almost got us all killed!"

Franky's willing to ignore the namecalling - he hears dumber from Iceberg, and he doesn't give a damn what these guys think of him - but he's proud as hell of that "dumpy canon ship". The first guy that comes forward gets a 2x4 across the face, a broken jaw and a bloody mouth, that sends him staggering back. But there are three others right behind him, and Franky's mad as hell, but they're madder than he is. The beer burning through them probably helps fuel that fire. It makes people mad and stupid and they don't feel too much other than that, which is probably why one guy takes a hit right to the shoulderblade and just keeps coming.

Franky's got a bloody nose of his own, his ribs aching from a kick, breath snagging, when he thinks he might stand a better chance of running than winning.

They're all bigger than he is, and hammered or not they're a lot stronger and he's outnumbered.

Damn, he hates that.

Franky checks one guy in the gut to make an opening. He thinks he dislocates his shoulder in the process, but he knocks the guy and another pirate into the cannal, drops the board still clutched and bloody in his hands. He steps over one guy that's sprawled out in the street and bolts for the corner.

About the same time Franky kicks an empty beer bottle aside, jamming his toes, another breaks against the back of his head. After that, Franky's sure he blacks out. He remembers landing hard enough to push the air out of his lungs, smashing his face and scraping his hands and knees - seeing bright yellow spots in the black, flickering across his vision. The next thing he knows, there's a hand in the collar of his shirt, yanking him up, and Franky's hands skim over the rough cobblestone, toes scuffing as he tries to get his footing, blood running hot across his face. He's dazed from the blow and the sounds muddle together, but whoever it is doesn't knock the hell out of him.

Two hands find their way into the front of Franky's shirt and he thinks he might hurl when he's hauled up, over someone's shoulder, and the jarring movement doesn't stop.

It takes him a couple of blocks to recognize the ass he's staring at, the set of carving knives hanging in the belt.

To realize that it's quiet and the pirates are long gone.

"Hey," Franky draws out, tastes the blood pooling in his mouth and feels it running down his chin. He bumps a fist against the small of Iceberg's back. "Put me down."

Iceberg stops running. Franky can hear how hard he's breathing, feel the rush of movement in his chest. He's suddenly aware of just how bad his ribs are aching when he can barely get his own breath - a sickening pressure building in his head and under his ribs that makes his stomach turn - but after resting for a second, instead of putting him down, Iceberg tightens the arm he has around Franky's back. He bounces Franky so he lays more comfortably over his shoulder, but when Iceberg picks up the pace, he at least slows to a jog.

"No way," he says, "You're such a pain."

A groan hitches out of Franky when his ribs pang in protest; his stomach does this gross flipping thing that makes the back of his throat burn.

The lingering taste of copper isn't helping at all.

"'M gonna hurl all down your back 'f you don'... put me down, Idiotberg."

"Go ahead," Iceberg says, voice raised and hurting Franky's ears, "I knew you'd get into trouble. You're lucky they didn't killed you -!"

He doesn't sound so vindicated after Franky follows through with his weak threat, but he puts Franky down in an alley. They're just a block from home. Franky spits out another glop of mucus and blood, pressing his face into his hands as he sits on an empty apple crate and being careful not to touch his throbbing nose. It's probably lucky there was barely anything else in his stomach. He's trying not to puke again, has a hard time getting deep breaths in without his chest aching or swallowing more blood.

Iceberg's taken off his shirt with a grimace, and he starts tearing it at the seams so the front comes away from the back clean. Franky doesn't understand why, glancing up in between his fingers as the queasy feeling subsides, until Iceberg puts a hand in Franky's hair and tilts his head back out of his hands. Iceberg presses his hands against both sides of Franky's nose, and before Franky can finish shouting in protest, hands jumping up to stop him, Iceberg sets his nose with a quick, downward pull of his hands. There's a gross crunching sound that Franky hears, more from inside his ears than from outside, and he lets out a harsh breath.

Pain shoots through his nose, sharp and hot, prickling his sinuses, and he grabs Iceberg's wrists, thinks he's going to hurl again.

Blood trickles down the back of his throat and Franky chokes.

_"Dabbid, Iceberg, wha' da hell?"_

"Calm down," Iceberg mutters, lifting the shirt against his nose to staunch the bleeding. He's not gentle about it. His other hand's on Franky's shoulder, thumb digging into his collarbone. "Take a deep breath - What the hell did you do to those pirates, anyway, Franky?"

"Wha's it batter?" Franky asks, stuffy and muffled by the shirt, his head throbbing, now.

His eyes are shut and he's squeezing Iceberg's wrists hard enough to hurt. That doesn't stop Iceberg from pinching the bridge of his nose again, pulling downward to straighten it out. Franky stomps a foot on the ground, trying to growl instead of whine, but _damnit_ that _really hurts..!_

Iceberg sighs, peeling back the shirt, "Oh my. It doesn't. Ms. Kokoro's the one that's going to kill you, now, you're a mess. Are you alright?"

_"Fine,"_ Franky mutters.

He doesn't mention the stinging in his ribs when he gasps a breath in through his open mouth, and Iceberg doesn't ask again. He lets Franky have the shirt, lets him burry his face in his hands and leaves him alone until everything's stopped bleeding. Franky has to gun up the nerve to blow his nose - knows it going to hurt like hell - but he can breath better once he does, even if he thinks he might go blind from the headache. He wads what's left of Iceberg's shirt up in his hands, surprised to notice he's shaking pretty bad. He's going to be black and blue tomorrow, he can already feel it - like his skin's wrapped too tight, his whole boddy throbbing at every little shift in his muscles.

Iceberg's crouching beside the crate, elbows resting on his knees, rubbing his knuckles and not saying anything. His head's cocked like he's listening, and Franky lifts his head a little, trying to do the same, but he can't really hear anything other than a dull thumping in his ears.

"Where the hell'd you come from, anyway?" Franky asks.

"Ms. Kokoro was worried when you didn't come back for supper," Iceberg says, "So I went looking for you."

"How'd you get away from those pirates...?"

"I've lived here longer than you have, moron. I know my way around." He gets to his feet, swats the outside of Franky's knee with his hand as he does and makes a gesture. "Come on, let's get home. We should probably wait until those pirates leave town, but if you want, I can help you fix the rest of those bridges." Franky feels that tingling in his sinuses again, presses his mouth closed and gingerly pushes a hand back through his hair. Iceberg asks, "That's what you were doing with all that lumber, isn't it?"

He'll be damned if he admits it. Even if it was an accident, Franky doesn't feel bad for getting those pirates shipwrecked - jerkwads probably deserved it, even if the ship didn't. But he's seen plenty of times what pirates will do to a town. They'll take whatever they can and burn it all to the ground (they'll leave their kid behind if he's too much trouble).

Franky makes a noise that hurts his nose, ducks his head and rubs his eyes, "Yeah - fine, whatever."

"Oh my. I only offered to help, Franky, you don't have to cry about it - "

_"I'm not cryin', you're cryin'... !"_

And Iceberg, at least, doesn't make fun of him for not crying on the way home.

-x-

-Motcn


	5. half-full

-x-

Steam:  
_half-full_

-x-

Franky isn't very observant when he's running three degrees hotter than normal.

He doesn't remember much about _being_ sick, even though the _getting_ sick part kinda plays over in his head, foggy and with big chunks of time missing, spots blurring together. Kokoro telling him, _"For goodness' sake, put some clothes on before you catch a cold, Franky...!"_ Iceberg calling him a _moron_ and knocking him in the head. Sneezing for the first time as the rain rushes in his ears, snot running down his face; how hard it was to breath being all chugged up, his muscles gross and wobbly, trying to keep up with Iceberg and Tom. Dropping a valve pipe and busting his toes, sliding on the slick concrete. He remembers being warm and soft, too hot, trying to cover up the nasty taste of cough syrup with Kokoro's mushroom soup.

The next thing Franky really knows, he's lifting his head, groaning as he drags the pillow off the top of his head. Sweat sticks his hair up, cold on his arms and the back of his neck. The top of the pillow's cool against his face when he hugs it in his arms, and his eyes are heavy and sore, so Franky sinks right back down. It takes him a while to get his eyes open, get his bearings. The room is dark, but he can make everything out just fine, though he doesn't really look around. He stares across the floor at the base of the book shelves and the crate in the corner; guesses from the slight, steady wheezing noise behind him that Tom is asleep on his back instead of on his side again.

Franky's whole body aches. He still has that gross wet feeling in the back of his throat, but he's cold now that the fever's broke. He feels rested, at least - less like he's been beaten with a stick and more like normal - and Franky doesn't really notice when he's fallen asleep until he jolts awake. On the pallet next to him, Iceberg moves. He shoves off the blanket like it weighs a ton, leans heavily on one of his hands when he finally manages to sit up.

Franky sees him drop his face into his palm, hears the harsh sound of his breathing, and lifts his head a little.

"'S matter?" Franky mumbles.

His throat's wrecked from coughing, and the words taste like sand on his tongue.

"You're sick because you're a moron," he hears Iceberg mutter, his voice weak and stuffy-sounding, "How the hell did I get sick, too...?"

"Cause you're an idiot, Idiotberg." Iceberg's fist swats Franky in the side. Franky puffs a laugh into his pillow, thinks about kicking back, but doesn't. His throat's dry and it's hard to swallow, but he's not moving if he doesn't have to. He hears Iceberg moving, though, and peels his eyes open; he's just drawn his knees up, laying against them with his hands cupping his forehead. Franky drags his arm out from under the pillow. It doesn't get far, palm flat against the floorboards. "Floor's nice 'n cold 'f you're burnin' up."

Iceberg snorts, and that starts him coughing wetly, inhales wheezing.

Once the fit subsides, Iceberg groans into his palm, "How're we gonna work tomorrow...?"

Franky hums into the pillow, his eyes closed again.

He knows he's been sick - in-bed-sick, anyway - a full day. Hell, maybe two, he isn't sure what night it is. This thing kicked his ass and took his name. Makes him wonder how long Iceberg's been fighting it off, just so he could help Tom with the Sea Train, and Franky remembers, hazily, something Tom has told them before, pending broken bones and severe weather. Franky turns his face out of the pillow so Iceberg will hear him mumble, _"The work'll still be there in the mornin'."_

Iceberg makes another noise, and a little bit later Franky hears the blankets rustling, the floor creaking softly in the dark as Iceberg gets up and leaves. Franky doesn't hear him come back, is drooling on the pillow when he feels a warm hand pick his up off the floor and turn it over, something cool pressing into his palm. He jerks his head up with a grunt, fingers closing around the glass and pulling it in against the pillow. It's only half-full and the water sloshes around, a drop beading down the outside and pooling in the dip below his thumb. Iceberg is pulling his blankets up, laying back down and curling an arm over the pillow resting on his chest.

"You need to stay hydrated, Franky," Iceberg murmurs, raising a hand to lay across his eyes, like it's too bright in the dark.

Franky remembers his head was killing him by the time he finally gave up and crawled into bed. He stares at the water, doesn't realize how thirsty he had been until he sits up enough to take a drink and empties the glass. His throat doesn't scratch so much when he breathes, and Franky lets out a deep sigh, face buried in the pillow again, tipping the glass a little so the bottom of it taps lightly against the floor. He switches the hand that it's in and drags the other back enough to swat Iceberg in the shoulder, suddenly thinking of something.

"You're stupid," he mutters.

"Give me that glass - "

"No, I mean - " Franky laughs, cracking a grin and glad the pillow mostly hides it. "You're body must not know what it's name is. Icebergs're supposed to be cold, right?"

The pillow hits him across the back, a foot sliding his way underneath the blankets in what is obviously supposed to be a kick, but falls short. Franky laughs, raises a hand to block it the second time the pillow comes lazily down on the back of his head, but he's sure he sees a grin on Iceberg's face before he turns over, muttering, _"Moron."_

-x-

-Motcn


	6. the sound thunderous

-x-

Steam:   
_the sound thunderous_

-x-

"Hey, Iceberg. There's a ship headed this way."

Iceberg glances first at Franky, who's sitting in the boat alongside the tracks, hands resting on the crank of the mechanism Tom has fitted to it to keep the fish away. He hasn't quite perfected it yet. They're in the middle of testing its strength and range, now, and they're miles out from Water 7, where the sea is deep and there's very little outside interference. Usually, at least. When Iceberg slides his gaze across the horizon, he sees that Franky is right. There's a ship coming into view to the north - not quite the size of a galleon, but decently large - but he doesn't see a jolly roger on the flag or sail, so he doesn't see any need to worry.

"It's probably a passenger ship going to Pucci," he says, dropping his eyes to the railway again as he walks it, "You're supposed to be watching the clock, Flaky."

Franky shoots him a glare that Iceberg only sees out of the corner of his eye.

"I'm watchin' it! Don't think you can boss me around just cuz Mr. Tom's not here…!"

But the second he glances down at the stopwatch in his hand, Iceberg hears him hurriedly turning the crank. They're supposed to turn it for 30 seconds every two minutes. Iceberg crouches on one of the planks of the railway, the sea cool and washing over his legs as the rails bob on the waves, and puts an ear in the water to listen. It carries the gentle groan of the crank turning, the repetitive _clip-clapping_ as two flat pieces of iron turn around a gear and hit against one another, but Iceberg doesn't hear anything particularly off-putting about the sounds.

It would certainly become annoying after a while - but he's not a fish, or a fishman, so perhaps there's something in it that he can't hear at all. Or perhaps it's just not right. Sighing, Iceberg sits back on his haunches, elbows resting on his knees, the water buoying him so he doesn't fall over, though he only has his heels on the edge of the plank. They won't know until Tom comes up, and he glances back toward the boat.

Franky has stopped turning the crank and he's staring off at the ship, brow knotted. He's fidgeting with the stopwatch, pushing it with his thumb so it turns in his palm.

"That don't look like a passenger ship to me."

The statement seems random, but Iceberg sees his point. The wind is as steady as ever on the open sea and the ship has come much closer in the short span of time. But Pucci is further along the tracks, and the ship's heading is clearly pointed toward them instead of to the west, going against whatever pose they might have. No one has any business with them all the way out here - not even pirates, since there's clearly nothing to pillage. Of course, it's likely they're the victims of a pirate raid themselves and they're looking for help, but there's no obvious signs of damage to the ship, the sails, or even the few people Iceberg can see moving about the deck, and the sight of such a large ship approaching...

Slowly, Iceberg stands, scanning the ship again, but any identifier he can see isn't one he recognizes.

Franky turns the crank again, but as soon as the thirty seconds are up, he's looking at the ship again, glancing at Iceberg.

"Think they're lost?"

Iceberg doesn't answer, coming back along the tracks to stand by the boat, where it's tethered to one of the iron cables running over the planks of the railway. He crouches again, unties the knot and reties a new one that they can simply yank free if they have to. He straightens up and sees Franky watching him carefully. They've got a saw in the boat - several other tools and a few boards to make repairs to the rails - but Franky, for once in his life, is dressed more than Iceberg is.

He's wearing an open floral-print shirt, whereas Iceberg stripped down to his swimming trunks to get in the water. Even his tool belt is lying in the bottom of the boat, and Iceberg suddenly feels naked without it. Several voices make their way across the open air as one man steps up onto the gunwale at the head of the ship, holding onto the rigging and deliberately raising his voice, "Looks like we got ourselves a couple of runaways here, Boss." There's a dark delight in his tone that sits ill in Iceberg's chest.

He looks at the marker on their flag again, the direction they came from.

The ship is near enough, now, that they can clearly see the man leering at them - broad and dark, a saber at his belt - and the handful of men that come to stand around him. One of them's measuring out a length of rope. The half-covered cages on the deck behind them are a disconcerting sight.

Iceberg makes a low noise to get Franky's attention; Franky doesn't look at him, but he straightens his back a bit, raises his chin.

"Oh my," Iceberg says, keeping his voice down so it doesn't carry, "They're human traffickers from the Archipelago."

He sees Franky's profile bunch in confusion.

"They're what, now?"

"_Slave traders._ They sell people on the black market."

"No point in askin' how they get ahold of those people, I guess," Franky mutters, glancing down at the stopwatch.

He puts a hand on the crank to turn it again, but Iceberg says, "Don't," and Franky shoots him a quick glance. Reluctantly, he props his hand on his knee, looking back toward the ship as another man comes into view from one of the upper decks. He's dressed better than the other men are, though he leers just like the rest once he gets a look at them.

"Well, well," he says, evidently smug with his find, "What are the chances, finding two pretty boys out here all on their own. Must be from Water 7 - people have been abandoning that place left and right lately." He bangs a hand on the railing, and there's a chorus of laughs and cheers as he turns away. "Bring 'em aboard, boys."

Only part of that seems to stick with Franky.

He makes a face, blurts out, _"Pretty?"_

Iceberg isn't sure he understands the implication, but before he can open his mouth, he sees exactly where the ship is as it draws level with them - as it runs aground on the railway hidden just beneath the waves. True to it's form, the railway gives instead of breaking apart, but as it goes under, dragging along the keel of the ship, Iceberg goes down alone with it. The rail gets sucked right out from under his feet and he sinks sharply, caught in the pull, the bottom dropping out of his stomach. He sucks in a breath and only getting water. For an instant he forgets to kick his feet. He swallows hard, chokes, then breaks the surface, heaving and coughing salt water out of his lungs.

He hears Franky shout his name, sees him standing up in the boat.

The knot it was tethered with has come loose and it's drifted a bit; rather than try and make it, Iceberg treads water where he is, wheezes, "I'm fine." Franky rounds on the ship. Their lookout must not have noticed the track, because the crew is in an uproar, confused and pounding across the deck as the ship comes to a dead stop in the water. The rails didn't give enough, and Iceberg's worried they _will _break under the strain.

Franky is rightly furious.

"Hey, look here, you dumb bastards!" Franky shouts at the men running back and forth, leaning over the side of the ship and pulling at the sails. They still haven't figured it out. Only one of them stops to even acknowledge him - the boss, Iceberg realizes. "We ain't runaways, we're shipwrights! And you're wreckin' our railway!"

_"Railway!?"_

"Are you deaf _and _ugly?" Iceberg inwardly sighs, slips underwater and makes for the boat as Franky barks, "That's what I said, jackass, now get the hell off it before you break it! You want me to come up there and kick your ass?"

The man is red-faced and screaming for a pistol when Iceberg grabs the side of the boat and pulls himself halfway up out of the water. Franky starts as the boat rocks and glances back at him, ignoring the trafficker entirely, and Iceberg beckons with his hand, "Franky, hand me my tool belt - and your goggles."

"What the hell for?" but he pulls the goggles off, anyway.

"I'm going to take the clicker off the bottom of the boat and we're going to get out of here while they're still hung up on the tracks."

He has his hand held out for his belt, but Franky jerks it back at the last second, raising his voice, _"What?_ Why don't we just kick their ass?"

_"Moron,"_ Iceberg says under his breath, "We don't have an advantage in the water, and if we board their ship they'll just capture us. You want to be a slave? Mr. Tom should be heading back by now - he'll know something is wrong because we didn't sound off - but we should put some distance between ourselves and these guys. Give me the belt!"

Franky passes him the belt and the goggles, looking reluctant.

"What if they just fire a cannon at us, huh?"

"They won't - there's no profit in killing us."

Franky's hesitation vanishes entirely at the gunshot, the bullet that splinters the side of the boat. It's only a warning shot - Franky yelps, jerking backwards and stumbling to the other side of the boat, and Iceberg sucks in a deep breath, yanking the goggles down over his eyes as he goes under. It's an easy task getting the clicker loose from the attachment on the bottom of the boat, just a few twists of the screwdriver. Iceberg thinks it shouldn't be too hard to swim with, but it's the only thing they can't just leave.

The boat, saws, and lumber can be replaced.

Tom doesn't have another one of these and it's senseless to make another from scratch if this one is the one that finally works.

Muffled slightly under the water, he hears Franky's voice, loud and boisterous - what he can only assume is the trafficker's, pitched higher with rage - and then another gunshot just as his lungs are starting to ache and the last bolt comes free, sinking slowly down into the blue. Iceberg goes up for a breath, _"Franky! Let's go!"_ and goes right back under again, kicking away from the boat, deeper into the water and toward the tracks.

The resounding splash behind him hardly calms his nerves. It isn't until Franky quickly outpaces him that Iceberg realizes how hard his heart had been beating, but Franky isn't trailing blood. That, thankfully, means that man is as incompetent with a pistol as his lookouts are.

-x-

When the tracks finally level out again near the surface, Iceberg lifts Tom's clicker up onto it to give his arms a rest. It's harder to swim with than he anticipated, carrying it and his belt, and his arms and legs are burning with the effort. He almost can't even get it up onto the tracks, though they're mostly submerged. Franky comes up across from him, drapes an arm over the cable between the planks and wipes the water from his eyes, pushing his hair out of his face as he looks back the way they came.

They can still see the trafficker's ship, but they're well out of a pistol's range.

They both heard a loud shudder in the water just before they came up for air - Iceberg has his suspicions, and Franky confirms it when he climbs up onto the tracks, both hands shielding his eyes from the sun's glare on the water. Water runs off him, droplets plinking like rain on the ocean.

"Looks like they sunk the boat," Franky says, dropping his hands.

He stoops to pick up the clicker, metal pieces clacking loosely together, and offers the other hand to Iceberg, helps pull him up out of the water and then takes his tool belt from him, as well, once they're standing together on the tracks. Iceberg doesn't protest, and takes the opportunity to catch his breath and rest his arms, watching the activity around the trafficker's ship. They've got people in the water, now, and if they manage to get off the tracks, they'll catch them in no time.

It's a good two hours walking back to Water 7 along the tracks, but they can't just leave without letting Tom know.

Iceberg and Franky both flinch when canon fire splits the air again, but the ball hits the water near the ship - there's no way it was aimed at them. Even at this distance, the arch of the water is huge, the sound thunderous. It's several seconds before the wave rocks the tracks where they're standing, pushing them up over the high swell and sinking them gently back down, and in that time they hear the unmistakable hallmarks of wood splintering.

_"Those bastards!"_ Franky growls, "They must've hit the track - !"

"No, that's not it - "

The side of that huge ship breaks wide open - an egg cracking on an iron skillet - and Iceberg can hear the men yelling, the booming echo of gunshots. A figure emerges from the water, small at this distance, but unmistakable, and Iceberg thinks his heart stops in his chest.

His fingers dig into Franky's arm, where he grabbed on to keep his balance.

_"MR. TOM!"_

Franky seems to have come to the same realization, because they both take off back along the tracks, waving their arms above their head, shaking the clicker so the iron plates bang together, shouting to get his attention.

_"Mr. Tom! We're over here!"_

_"Hey! Mr. Tom!"_

They see the ship slide in the water, a quick, backwards movement not at all natural for a ship, and it's the only warning they get. The tracks lurch suddenly under their feet, sweep off toward the right. Franky's foot slips between two of the planks and he falls hard on the rails when they come up to meet him; Iceberg goes sideways into the sea. His head is pounding when he comes up, choking for the second time, his hair in his face and salt stinging his eyes and throat.

Iceberg twists around in the water.

"Franky!"

He's sprawled on the tracks, one leg hooked over the cable on the side of the track and the other in the water, between two of the planks.

"'M fine," Franky gurgles, but he pulls an arm underneath him, face beat red as he shifts on the plank that's digging into his chest. It's barely audible, but Iceberg hears him whine, "Think I destroyed my junk though - _jeez _-"

He winces with sympathy, surprised to see, despite that, that Franky still has ahold of the clicker and his tool belt. Iceberg swims back to the tracks and takes both of them from Franky so he can get up; doesn't miss the way Franky winces putting weight on his left leg after he pulls it out of the water or the way his legs shake. It looks like he busted his knee or twisted it on the way down, as well, and Franky wobbles a little, keeps a hand between his legs as he doubles over to breathe, but he stands just fine on his own, considering.

He takes the clicker back with his free hand while Iceberg climbs up again.

The trafficker's ship is taking on water at an alarming rate - already a third of the way gone, it's apparent there's no saving it.

Iceberg doesn't see Tom among the men scrambling for lifeboats, wailing in confusion, and he turns his eyes to the sea, scanning the waves as they begin to even out. Tom comes up behind them near the tracks just a few seconds later, startling him and Franky both as he breaks the surface. When he wheezes and coughs and has trouble pulling himself up onto the railway, Iceberg can only imagine the worst, a cold sinking into his chest.

"Mr. Tom! Are you alright?!"

"Hey, those bastards didn't get you did they? They're terrible shots!"

He and Franky rush back together, each grabbing an arm and heaving the large fishman up out of the water, bowing the tracks under his weight. But when Tom turns over to sit on the side of the tracks he's doubled over with gut-twisting, lung-squeezing _laughter_, nothing but gentle _ta-haha_s escaping as he tries to catch his breath. All Iceberg can do is release the breath he hadn't realized he was holding onto, relief settling in where panic had been. He pushes a hand back through his hair.

Franky falls directly into outrage, "What the hell's so funny?!"

Tom is laughing so hard he can barely speak.

They get him up and on their way back before he finally quiets down, the trafficker's ship and the commotion fading away behind them. Around Tom, Iceberg sees Franky glancing back, but he doesn't, and neither of them say anything more until Tom does. The fishman digs his knuckles into the corner of his eye, with deep breaths and hearty sighs.

"Saw the boat get blown apart on my way up," he finally says, "Thought for sure you'd been killed, but - BOOM! - here you are! _Ta-ha...! Ha...! Haa!_ Safe and sound~"

He reaches up, claps Iceberg and Franky both across the shoulders. The webbing between his thumb and forefinger presses into the backs of their necks when he squeezes, giving them both a playful shake that nearly knocks them off their feet and back into the sea. When he finally lets go, he passes Franky his goggles and Iceberg his bandana, and when Franky hefts the clicker up for Tom to take, Iceberg wrings the water out of his bandana and asks him how it sounded.

Tom only laughs again, voice booming from his chest.

There isn't a fish around for miles.

-x-

-Motcn


	7. one cool cat

-x-

Steam:   
_one cool cat_

-x-

"Iceberg! Are you feeding the mice?!"

It's a rhetorical question.

Kokoro has caught him red-handed and Iceberg looks up from where he's sitting on the floor, his palm resting in his lap, full of crumbled bread. The warehouse has always had mice. It's nothing unusual for a few to scramble out of sight when they cut the lights on, nothing to find nests when they clear out junk that's accumulated in unsued rooms or holes hidden away behind crates or bundles of cloth or rope that haven't been moved in ages. Iceberg has already owned up to removing the traps (Franky even helped him). He's dove underneath the kitchen table after a mouse before, when Kokoro spotted it and threw a wok clear through the kitchen door; shoed them out of the way with his foot as he carried lumber across the dock.

He's caught them when he's found them on ship's they're building, fished them out of the dock when it's full (and Franky has called him _"one cool cat"_ so often he can't breathe for laughing when he sees a mouse cupped loosely in Iceberg's hand). It's only recently that the rodents have become a bit of a problem, appearing in the apartment and the office, gnawing their way into food stores. And it seems incredibly pointless to lie, now, when there are at least eight mice eating out of his palm. There's one climbing up his shoulders, it's tiny, prickly fingers tugging at his tanktop - another slipping down his shirt collar, across his chest, and yet another scratching the back of his neck as it crawls up into his hair.

"Oh my," he murmurs, at a loss.

Iceberg moves his free hand so it hangs over the mice in his lap, though Kokoro has obviously already seen them. They tumble over one another, a couple of them nibbling at the sides of his fingers and climbing into his palm, spilling bread across his legs. The mouse in his hair tries to come down across his forehead, pushing Iceberg's left eye closed (it loses it's nerve and quickly back-tracks). Kokoro plants her hands on her hips, keeps the large crate of nails in between them.

"_'Oh my...!'_ Iceberg, that's why we can't get rid of them!"

"They aren't hurting anything, Ms. Kokoro," Iceberg says - reasonably, he thinks, considering he gives an involuntary jerk when the mouse in his shirt skitters over his ribs - "They don't chew up anything we can't repair, and I thought if I fed them it may keep them out of the pantry - "

"You can't train mice to not go after food, Iceberg - we can't even get Franky to wear _clothes _half the time, for goodness' sake - "

"The mice would listen better," Iceberg says evenly, certain of that, at least, and Kokoro rolls her eyes.

She turns away, shouts, "TOM!" at the open warehouse door. Her short heels clack against the concerete and Iceberg hurries to his feet, scooping the mice up in one arm, pinning down the one in his shirt and cupping a hand over the one trying to use his left ear as a ladder. By the time he catches up with Kokoro, she's already found Tom sitting out on the balcony (Franky right beside him, bare feet swinging in the open air, half-way through his own sandwich and listening with a broad grin). It doesn't come as much of a surprise when the fishman leans back from the railing and laughs, crumbs falling from his mouth and catching in his beard.

"Ah, Kokoro, they're only mice!" Tom says, and Iceberg feels a warmth creeping up his neck, raises his hand and finds the mouse from his shirt climbing up into his hair. Kokoro sighs heavily and props her hands on her hips as Tom continues, "Besides, if Iceberg says he can keep them out of the pantry, then I'm sure he will! _Ta-ha..! Ha..!"_

Iceberg is incredibly glad that Franky's mouth is full so he can't say anything, sees him cover his mouth while his shoulders shake.

-x-

-Motcn


	8. slowly changing gears

-x-

Steam:   
_slowly changing gears_

-x-

It's the fourth time in just a few short weeks. Iceberg stands in the boat, arms out to keep his balance, rain a noisy patter on the choppy waves. His heart is in his throat watching the ocean churn and bubble, hiss and steam, as the Rocketman goes under again with a great choked noise that's louder than the thunder could ever imagine. The railway is ruined, pieces of board and twisted iron clattering against the side of the boat. Whatever's still intact has gone under with Rocketman, and Tom along with it.

_It's still too heavy,_ Iceberg thinks, chewing his lip. He can see the track several yards away where it bows too far under the water to be seen. He wonders if Tom can get it up this time and has the sinking feeling that he can't. It's several minutes before Tom or Yokozuna either one come up, and the frog comes first with a mighty splash just off the rails, heaving for breath as he climbs up into the rain and out of the dark, freezing water.

Tom breaks the surface near the boat, as silent as the sea.

"It's no good, Iceberg," he says lifting a webbed hand to cover his head. He's got a right to look more at a loss than he does. "It's not coming up this way."

"Oh my." Iceberg's shoulders sag as he scans the waves, "It's off the track?"

"By a few yards," Tom says, turning and pointing in the water where Iceberg can't see, but he probably can, "Gone off to the right there. On its side. Part of the track's twisted up in the back paddles and it'll take some time to get it loose and back upright."

"I could go back for a crane from the shipyard - "

But Tom shakes his head.

"No, we're too far out for a crane," he says, looking back along the tracks. Iceberg knows Tom can't see it over the cresting waves, but Water 7 is just a broad line on the horizon from here, barely visible through the haze of rain. Iceberg's heart sinks even further. The rain sounds too loud. "And we don't have a ship big enough to salvage. It's just too heavy. Yokozuna and I will take her home along the bottom - that'll be the easiest way."

"What can I do, Mr. Tom?"

"_Ta-haha!_ Not a thing." It's just an honest fact, and any despair Tom has seems to vanish in an instant as he pats the underside of the boat, gives it a firm push toward Water 7. Iceberg grabs onto the side with both hands so he doesn't fall face-first into the water. He doesn't like this feeling, but Tom is grinning. "You go on home before it gets any worse out here. Help Franky finish up that line of track, we'll need it to repair this first thing tomorrow."

"Oh my... alright."

"I'll see you in the morning."

"Alright."

-x-

_"'See you in the morning?'_ What's, he gonna spend the night out there?"

Franky casts a skeptical look towards the dark warehouse windows, shuddering against the wind and rain. The storm has picked up a lot since Iceberg came in by himself and delivered the news, and they've been listening to the howling drum while they assemble the long line of track that's laid out in the dry dock. A lot of the wooden boards are already attached to the woven iron cables Tom made - fitted down over threaded pegs in the cable - and all they have to do is screw on the caps to hold the two of them together. Once they finish this line, they'll roll in into a coil, scoot it to the other end of the dock, and lay another line of boards down.

It's boring, repetitive work, but it's gotta be done.

Franky shoots Iceberg a look, but Iceberg is grim-faced, so focused on twisting the caps down on his side of the rail that he doesn't even look up when Franky asks.

It's a dumb question, anyway.

But Franky doesn't like being ignored.

"Hey," he says, a bit louder than before. The word surprises him, bouncing around more in the confined space than he thought it would. Iceberg cuts his eyes up, a look as cold as his name is, and Franky glares right back, shifting forward - he's more than ready to blow off some steam. "The hell's that mean ass look for, huh?"

Color him surprised. Iceberg doesn't say anything at all, drops his gaze and twists a cap in hard enough to dig it into the wood. He shuffles further down the track, thumbs another couple of pegs into the holes of another board, and tightens them in. Iceberg's too pissed off to even fight with him - that sure is a first. Put off, Franky slowly changes gear, tapping the flathead screwdriver against the plank by his knee and watching Iceberg work his way down the line of track.

Iceberg doesn't snap at Franky to pick up the pace or get back to work.

When he does look up it's toward the warehouse door, then right back down again.

_You're gonna give yourself a headache frownin' like that,_ Franky starts to say, smacking the handle of the screwdriver into the palm of his hand, but he bites his tongue. _It's not our fault it keeps sinkin' like that, y'know. We'll just have to figure out a way to make it lighter._

That'll all just piss him off more.

So he asks, instead, "Y'think he's gonna be alright out there by himself? I mean, he's got Yokozuna, but..."

Kokoro comes in through the open apartment door - Iceberg sits back on his heels, levels Franky with another look that's not nearly as chilly as the first one was. Looks like he's thawed out some, but he still doesn't say anything. Kokoro's laughing softly as she carries a tray over to the edge of the empty dock, grinning down at them.

She's the one that answers.

"You boys forget who it is you're talking about?" she asks, cheerful tone breaking the mood. She hefts the tray over onto her hip. "Tom's just fine out there. He's more at home in the water than he is on land. _Na-gaga~"_ She glances toward the door, as well. "Still, I at least wish he'd have come in for supper. Now, get on up here, boys! Tom might not be around right now to tell you when it's time to take a break, but I'm sure as sunshine not gonna let you work right through a meal!"

It's around that time that Iceberg's stomach grumbles the same kinda sentiment, loud enough for all three of them to hear.

Kokoro cackles, "Ah, I've got perfect timing, don't I? You hardly ate anything before you were rushing out the door to help Tom earlier. Come on, get up here!"

Quiet and resigned, Iceberg pockets the flathead and the handful of caps he has left, getting to his feet and pulling the bandana off his head. Kokoro calls for Franky, next. Franky grins and hurriedly jams a couple of pegs into the board in front of him, mutters, "Yeah, yeah, hang on just a sec!" He tightens them in with a few quick twists, catches up to the plank where Iceberg stopped before he drops his stuff next to the track and pulls himself up out of the dry dock.

-x-

-Motcn


	9. like he's come away the victor

-x-

Steam:   
_like he's come away the victor_

-x-

"You boys come over here," Kokoro says abruptly one evening, standing in the kitchen doorway and brandishing a knife.

Franky's already sprawled across their three pallets, under a pillow, but he lunges upright when he realizes what Kokoro wants, kicking blankets aside with a vigor that suggests he's been waiting on this moment for a while, now. Tom laughs and claps the table top. At his desk in the middle of the row, Iceberg glances up from the book he's reading, eyes on the notches in the wood of the doorframe as Franky goes obediently to stand in it, his heels and back pressed flat against them.

"I don't think there's much point in me doing it, too, Ms. Kokoro," Iceberg says, sitting back in his chair and laying an arm across the top of it, "Franky's finally starting to shoot up, but I can't have gotten that much taller, even in a year."

"Oh, you'd be surprised how much a young man in his twenties will grow," Kokoro says with a broad, knowing smile, raising a hand to flatten Franky's hair down before digging the knife into the kitchen-side of the door frame. The fact that she has to reach _up_ to do it, now, doesn't go unnoticed by anyone. Franky fights a grin, trying to keep his feet still and his back straight, fists bobbing against his legs. "There we are!"

Franky steps away from the frame and turns to look, feeling the new notch with a bandaged finger. His finger scoots across the frame, down about an inch or two, and Franky draws out a loud, _"Ha!"_ like he's come away the victor. He's laughing when he turns on Iceberg, grinning ear to ear, tapping a mark that's five years old.

"Check this out, ice for brains! You were such a shorty at seventeen!"

Of all things, Iceberg isn't expecting that. He gets quickly to his feet, shoving the chair back - _"Like that matters, now! You're always going to be the short one!" "As if! I got a late start, sure, but look at this progress!"_ - at the table, Tom booms with laughter. Iceberg backs up against the frame and let's Kokoro put another notch in on his side of the door. It's only a few centimeters, but he has indeed grown.

"Oh my," Iceberg points at it, looking triumphantly at Franky, "See that? It's the top one that counts, Flaky."

He's still a solid four inches above Franky and it's much more prominent etched into the wood right in front of them. Franky grinds his teeth, looking between the marks - the glaring height difference - and Iceberg.

"No way! It don't look like _that much!_"

"The notches don't lie!"

"Alright, boys," Kokoro says, "You don't have to fight about every little thing -"

_"Who's little?"_

" - you're both still growing, neither one of you are little any more - Tom if you keep on laughing like that they'll just keep arguing!"

"_Ta-ha...! Ha...! Ha!_ Kokoro's right!" Tom says to silence them. They stop wrestling in the doorway, Iceberg with Franky's head under his arm, squeezing tight; Franky trying to take Iceberg's feet out from under him. "You're both fine, strong young men! You'll keep growing with a BOOM! until you're as big as I am!"

Franky snorts, laughing, now, as well, trying to pull his head free, "Mr. Tom I hope you don't mean as big around as you are - _ack!"_

Iceberg squeezes Franky's neck in the crook of his arm, "Moron, don't talk to Mr. Tom like that! He just gave the two of us a compliment and you're calling him fat!" and Franky paws at his wrist and elbow, kicking at the back of his leg. Kokoro sighs, her hands on her hips, and Tom carries right on laughing, tears in his eyes.

-x-

-Motcn


	10. the things that hurt

-x-

Steam:  
_the things that hurt_

-x-

It's just a fact of nature - boys growing up together will fight.

Tom's knows it.

Breaking up the tussles and petty arguments, telling them over and over again to get along, only makes them want to fight harder, and his boys are so different it's inevitable that they're going to butt heads over one thing or another. Iceberg is too serious, Franky not serious enough. They're both hard workers, but Franky is like a bird, flitting from one project to another, where Iceberg tends to overthink things so much he gets hung up in them. They'll sort themselves out on their own, given enough time - and neither one of them can hold a candle to the aggression young fishman show at their age, easing into adulthood, so Tom doesn't see any harm in letting them be.

Of course, he has never _had_ to break them up before.

Never had to physically pull them off of one another, never had to raise his voice with a BOOM! and still not be heard.

And it's left him puzzled, upset setting in as he looks the two boys over.

He has them sitting beside each other on the chimney from the engine they've dismantled for the third time this week. Something's just not right on the inside, and it's taking some time to fine tune the engine and work all the little odds and ends out of it. He understands that they're frustrated - he is, too, probably more than either of them. It's his neck on the line, after all. His dream. But for them to let that frustration come to this...

That Tom doesn't understand at all.

Iceberg's left eye is swelling shut, an ugly purple color blooming across his cheekbone that nearly matches the blue of his hair. Franky's nose is bleeding freely, might even be broken if the angle is anything to judge by. Their chests are heaving, clothes torn, collars stretched, bruises forming where fists connected, busted lips and a number of scrapes bloody and dark. Iceberg is rubbing his knee and shaking, mouth pressed into a thin line, the anger not quite in his eyes anymore, and Franky's hands are squeezed into fists, his bottom lip between his teeth. The lens of his goggles are broken out, his eyes red-rimmed, breaths shuddering as they go in.

Tom doesn't know what started the fight, but he can make a fair guess.

He looks to his oldest apprentice.

Iceberg is too harsh with his words, though he usually has a decent point - Franky too easy to rile into anger and too quiet about the things that hurt him. Tom knows he won't get a word out of Franky, but Iceberg will talk if he asks. He just isn't sure he wants to hear what the young man has to say right now.

Tom rubs his jaw, silent while he thinks of some way to resolve this and teach them a lesson that's, at his fault, a bit late in coming. They don't quite respect each other the way he'd hoped they would at this age; are still quick to take each other for granted and throw their childish insults around. Neither of them are so little, anymore. They're both just about fully grown, big and strong enough to really hurt each other, whether they mean to or not. Blows to the body will heal up on their own just fine - it's the other that won't.

He does have a couple of shipments due to come in soon. The looming overlap of their arrival dates presented a bit of a problem before, risking both shipments on the sea these days. Now, however, it presents an opportunity.

Tom hums deep in his chest, squares his shoulders.

"I've got a job for you boys." Iceberg looks up in surprise, hair falling across his face, but Franky doesn't react at all other than to tighten his fists. He's still glaring at the distance, blood oozing from the cuts across his forehead. His eyes move in Tom's direction when he continues, "Franky, you're going to San Faldo to pick up that shipment of iron for me. Iceberg, you'll go to St. Poplar for the six pallets of lumber. You're both leaving first thing in the morning."

Tom expects the protests that come as the shock sinks in. The few times either of them have left Water 7 it was with him, to either pick up shipments or work on the railway and never for any real length of time. The color drains from Franky's face when he blurts out, "What - you're sendin' us way?!"

Iceberg nearly launches up from his seat and it's his injured knee that stops him more than anything else, "Mr. Tom, those shipments aren't due for almost a week! If we're both gone for that long, who's going to help you repair the engine or -"

"I can do all that myself," Tom says, with a deep finality that makes Iceberg reel back, bottom lip between his teeth, hands shaking where they're gripping the chimney. It's true, though it isn't fair of him to say. His boys work hard. They're just as capable as he is, more capable than most. But this will teach them some responsibility - maybe something else, once they spend some time without one another. "I was a master shipwright for many years before you boys came along, and you'll leave first thing in the morning because it's what I've asked you to do. Stay until the orders are filled, and then bring them home with a BOOM! Do you understand?"

For a second, he wonders if they might pipe up again.

Franky, he knows, is on the verge of an outburst, but they both buckle under, mutter a reluctant, "Yes, sir."

This will be the longest they've ever been apart since they came here.

Hopefully the distance will do them good.

-x-

Nine days later, Iceberg's bruises are fading and he's quiet when he brings the pallets into the warehouse, no longer limping on the knee Franky twisted, smiling at Tom's loud greeting. He's eager to talk about the trip. He enjoyed St Poplar as much as Tom suspected he would, and it was the very same with Franky in San Faldo, when the younger man turns up just a few hours later. The scratches on his forehead are as red and noticable as the day he left, but they're smaller than before and not likely to scar. It's odd to see him goggle-less, but Franky is as boisterous as ever, standing on top of the iron beams when Tom and Iceberg both come out to see it, bouncing on his toes and grinning.

"Lookie here, lookie here!" he sings, his hands on his hips, "Came back in one piece! Or should I say, _several pieces_ - all ready to be a Sea Train!"

Tom had given both of them plenty of money before they left; enough to cover the cost of the orders, their lodgings and meals, and some extra to do with as they pleased. Heading back into the warehouse, Iceberg remembers it and tries to give all the extra money back to Tom, and then some - Franky barely has anything left at all, but he does the same, pulling the small wad of cash out of his shirt pocket, looking incredulous when Tom laughs and tells them both to keep it, that they earned it.

Iceberg accepts it without a word.

Franky is stupefied.

"What the hell, Iceberg," he says, but he's laughing, "How're you gonna come home with so much money? That's super messed up!"

"Oh my. Not at all!" Iceberg is smiling as he pockets the money. "I got the woodcutters to come down on the price."

"Show off! It wasn't a contest; hell, I partied my brains out!"

"As if you had any to begin with, Flaky."

"Hey, at least I know how to have a good time, ice for brains! You probably stayed cooped up in your hotel the whole time!"

Their bantering carries over well into supper, but it's the easy, laughing kind that Tom sorely missed. They bump elbows a lot at the table, compare stories and makes jokes about the townspeople they saw. They both noticed the glaringly difference between the other cities and how things are in Water 7 - the living standards, the crime rate, how at ease the people are - and voice their mutual concerns, show an eagerness to get back to work before the name-calling starts again. Kokoro takes a seat beside Tom, shakes her head and smiles as she watches Iceberg take a new pair of goggles out of his bag and hand then to Franky, listens to Franky call him a jerk and deny that he's crying as he pulls them on.

(He just has pepper in his eyes, that's all.)

"I guess your plan didn't work the way you wanted to, huh, Tom?" she asks with a quiet cackle, chin resting in her palm, "They're the same as ever."

Tom only laughs harder, leaning back in his chair, because Kokoro doesn't see it the way he does. She doesn't hear the things they don't say - the way Iceberg smiles and comments on how quiet it was, how Franky laughs, saying that he could barely get to sleep at night.

And that's perfectly alright.

-x-

(A/n) I'm a forgetful piece of shit, guys, I'm so sorry! A bonus, also: due to complications, this is the last one I'll be posting! :C Last week I moved some files around, backed documents up to my USB, and somehow in the process I fucking deleted the finished documents I had lined up to post and kept the ones that were either barely started or half-finished; I can't be stressed enough to write them again (I'm mad because I can't remember them and when I try they just don't sound right and it's too much of an aggravation I'm so friggen mad..!), so this is the only one you're getting!

I hope you guys enjoyed these!

Thank you so much for the nice reviews and encouragement (I'm sorry to end on such a lame ass note, I had friggen _ten other chapters_ that are just _gone_, now, I could scream I'm so mad at my shitty backing-things-up skills what fucking even ; -; ).

-Motcn


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